Fix You
by ceruleanblues
Summary: AU. For the first time in my life, I'm seeing myself through someone else's eyes. His eyes. And through his eyes, I was beautiful.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Okay, so I know that I really shouldn't be working on this because I have 2—3, actually—stories pending on updates but this inspiration hit me hard, and I just had to get it out of my system or it'll gnaw on me forever. Rest assured, it's a quick 4-parter, and it's done, so I can now concentrate on WIME and THA!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Fix You**

**Part 1**

**When you try your best, but you don't succeed  
****When you get what you want, but not what you need  
****When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep  
****Stuck in reverse**

"Come on, Quinn, please…"

His oversized lips forms a pathetic pout as he stares up at me with those incredibly annoying kicked-up puppy dog eyes even though he damn-well knows that it pisses me off to no end. Pulling the sheets higher up my bare chest, I glare right back at him.

"No fucking way, Sam Evans."

He groans—a sound somewhere between a snort and a whimper—and clumsily climbs on top of me, propping his entire dead weight on my blissful, post-coital form like a fat whale on a beach.

"Please…"

His warm breath tickles my skin from where he has his nose buried in between my breasts. I roll my eyes at his persistence because, really; if there's anybody else more stubborn than the twat, it's me, but if there's anybody else more persuasive than me, it's got to be him. Taking my silence for some kind of consent, he catches the cotton covers between his teeth and slowly tugs them down, peeling the fabric off to expose my naked flesh. He keeps his smoldering gaze fixed onto my face, watching my every reaction, and God, I hate it when he's like that. It means that my libido does all the thinking in my head.

"It'll be fun, I promise," he whispers, the husky baritone of his voice sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

That bastard.

"Damn it, Sam," I grate out. His mouth hovers over my stomach with a hint of a smirk. "No means no, end of story."

Apparently, that's not an option for Sam Evans. He playfully darts his tongue out to taste the dip of my belly button—just like he would with his paint and his brush—and I swear he's doing this on purpose just to make me squirm on his bed. It's his sacred ground, and he prides himself on dominating each surface of his room.

Languidly, he creates a moist trail down to my core, pushing the rest of the sheets to the sides, and I'm torn between grabbing his blonde hair and kneeing him in the junk—both of which wouldn't end well for him if he continues his bold ministrations. He knows me too well, though, and manages to dodge my clawing fingers before I'm able to do some major damage.

"Fuck, Quinn," he chuckles. "Why do you always have to play dirty?"

"Touché, Evans," I retort sarcastically.

He laughs, this full-blown hearty Santa guffaw and hops off to stand at the foot of the wall pull-out, and I'm reeling at how unfair it is that he's actually clad in a pair of black boxers while I'm lying in my birthday suit.

"Well, that's not so bad, now, is it?" he taunts, an idiotic grin dancing on his boyish features. "I look at you naked all the time."

"And so with that you decide that the entire world should share your privilege?" I quip back indignantly, folding my arms across my chest.

"Well, it's not the entire world—"

"Frankly, I still don't understand why you'd even want me to do this," I say, feeling the flush in my cheeks as the all-familiar self-consciousness consumes me. Reaching down to retrieve my underwear from the floor, I quickly slip them on. "I mean, I'm not the most interesting subject, anyway. In fact, I'm sure there are plenty of girls out there who wouldn't mind being your nude model for a small sum of money."

He sighs, slightly defeated, and crawls across the span of his mattress to sit against his headboard. "You know that's not the reason why," he mutters. Draping his arm across my shoulders, he pulls me into his snug embrace. "I just get really uncomfortable around people I don't know, and this project is going to be part of my graduation show. How am I supposed to paint something if I can't even look at it."

"So just watch more porn," I grumble, staring straight at one of his artworks hanging on the wall.

"Quinn…"

"I'm not doing it."

He slides one calloused palm up to cup my face, tilting my head so that I'm now staring into his bright green orbs. The proximity is suffocating, especially when he looks like he's trying to decipher the inner depths of my soul—the only way a true stereotypical artist would when he's analyzing a masterpiece, an equivalent to drowning in an abyss—and it takes every fiber in my being to pull away.

"Just do this one thing for me," he pleads quietly. "I need you. You'll be the perfect subject."

I turn to him again. "I'm not perfect, Sam. I'm broken."

A crooked smile graces his lips, and despite his age, a degree of wisdom shines through his eyes. "Aren't we all?"

He's right, of course, he always is.

"You're a beautiful dancer, Quinn," he says, and even when I scoff at his statement, he continues, "and you're a beautiful person. Don't let anybody else tell you otherwise."

"I can't erase my past—"

"Hey, I'm still here, aren't I?"

He's my best friend, as I am his.

We've never been anything more.

"I'm still saying no, Sam."

His face brightens up considerably, the solemnness of the situation giving way to an air of mischief. "I promise, nobody will know it's you. I'll take some action shots and I'll just need you for reference; you won't even have to pose for hours."

I'm giggling because he's a hopeless oaf when he's ranting like an over-excited kindergarten kid, but it's only due to the fact that he's so passionate about his art. "Just shut up now while your dignity is still intact."

"So you'll do it?"

A Christmas tree couldn't outshine his mega-watt grin right this moment.

"Oh, what the hell."

* * *

Santana Lopez calls Sam my 'fuck buddy' just because we're best friends who happen to enjoy little romp fests. Sure, coming from the queen of Shagsville, I actually find that less offensive, but that doesn't mean I appreciate it every time she brings it up, especially in the middle of lunch.

In public.

She doesn't even thump me on my back when I choke on a piece of chicken, which kind of leaves me to believe that she rather enjoys my discomfort. I don't really get why she cares about my non-love life, anyway, since she's out-of-the-closet gay.

"Can you stop calling him that?" I frown, gulping down a mouthful of water. "Sam and I are best friends."

"Who practically live together and fuck each other's brains out everyday," she deadpans. "Honestly, Quinn, I can't remember the last time I even see you in our apartment. It's like I'm living with the spiders."

"Oh, please," I snort unceremoniously. "Like you're really complaining. I bet I can find traces of her DNA on every piece of furniture."

"How are the auditions coming along?"

She does that a lot; changing the subject, and usually, I'd call her out on that, but I don't want to receive anymore shit about my friendship with Sam Evans, so I reckon I'll cut her some slack.

"I don't know, San," I admit, shrugging my shoulders. "That's four auditions this week, and not a single callback."

"Those people are blind."

I cherish her enthusiasm and her outmost confidence in me, I really do, but for the life of me, I can't find any more pockets in my spirit to continue the positive charades. The small industry makes it impossible to escape from the harsh realities of my mistakes but I've sworn to myself never to give up.

My dream is all I have.

"I'm helping Sam out with his graduation project."

Santana quirks a sculpted eyebrow. "Oh? What's it about?"

"I don't know."

She shoots me a look of pure exasperation and stabs at her garden salad. "So why are you telling me this?"

"I'm just making polite conversation."

Narrowing her cat-like eyes, she studies me for a moment—and I pray she doesn't notice my flaming cheeks—before taking a sip of her soda.

"Well, if you ever need a Brazilian wax for that, just let me know."

I barely escape choking myself to death for the second time that day.

* * *

I get a call one morning while I'm still groggy with sleep. Sam mumbles something incoherent as I sit up to answer my phone but otherwise continues in his slumber. Knowing that he'd be a crappy douche if he gets woken up before he actually wants to, I wrap the bed sheet around my body and head out of the room.

"Miss Fabray?"

I plop myself down on the couch while trying to gauge the person's tone. "Yes, speaking."

"My name is Sue Sylvester and I'm the creative director of Rein Dance Company."

There's an onslaught of butterflies being unleashed in the cages around my heart, and I realize that I'm definitely not ready for this at eight in the fucking morning. My grip tightens on the covers cocooning my bare frame, the hand holding onto my cellphone trembling as I manage out a weak, "yes."

"I would like to meet you today at noon," she informs me tightly, and I don't think I'm given a choice here. "Are you fine with that?"

"Yes," I blurt out. "Yes, absolutely."

"See you then, Miss Fabray."

"You too."

And then I'm squealing, putting a three-year-old girl to shame as I skip around the living room—well, as much as I can, anyway—until I slip on the sheets and unglamorously land on my ass. For a dancer, I'm fuck-as-hell awkward when I can be. Apparently, I've managed to create enough of a ruckus to wake Sam up. He walks in, disoriented as shit, and slumps down on his tacky sofa.

"What the fuck are you so chipper about?" he grumbles.

Jumping onto his lap, I straddle his waist and allow for the fabric to casually fall off my body before planting a deep kiss on his lips in total disregard to his morning breath—or mine, for that matter—but I suppose he doesn't mind because his ever-wandering hands automatically roam down to grab my hips.

"I got a callback."

Face glowing with pride, he gets the message and flips me over on my back. His eyes—wide and expressive, twinkling in the morning sun—speaks of volumes even though he doesn't utter a single word.

He's my best friend, as I am his.

We understand each other perfectly.

"I did it, Sam."

* * *

I'm being told that my technique is flawless, but what I've come to realize is that it doesn't mean a thing to Sue Sylvester. She doesn't take shit in her company—doesn't tolerate obnoxious divas, doesn't accept complacency and excuses—and the first thing she tells me when I step into her office is to not ask her why I've been chosen out of the hundred others.

"You will give your hundred and fifty per cent to the company," she stresses, her intimidating, cold pin-sharp eyes spearing straight to my gut like freezing icicles. "You will lay down your sweat, your tears, your blood on the dance floor. You will bruise and sprain; your body will scream for you to stop, your mind will beg for you to quit."

She pauses in her speech, waiting expectantly for me.

"But I won't."

The corner of her thin lips twitch upwards, and as she leans back in her swivel chair, I exhale the breath that I'm unaware I've been holding the entire time. My shoulders—strung tight with tension—relaxes just for a bit, until she proceeds on again.

"You better not."

I manage a nervous smile. "Thank you for believing in me."

"Let me tell you something, Quinn." Each syllable is carefully enunciated and deliberate, made to inspire and remind every aspiring hopeful. "And I'll only repeat this once. An exceptional performer dances to express, not to impress."

I allow for her words to sink in.

"I hope you understand."

"I do."

Her forehead creases, her gaze intense. "Do you, really?"

I can't answer her, but as I've come to learn, it's impossible to hide anything from a woman who seems to read me as clear as day just by watching me dance.

"Stop allowing your past—or whatever burdens you carry with you—to hinder the way you express your emotions. You are a beautiful dancer, Quinn, but you just need to believe in yourself."

* * *

Sam requests that I put on a damn skirt and dance around for a bit while he works on some initial sketches. Lord knows I don't get him at times, but he says he's doing 'motion research'—whatever the fuck that is. After a full day of running pirouettes, chaînés, chassé, fouetté jeté—and every other pretentiously French tête-à-tête—I just want to soak myself in a nice long bath and go to bed.

"Are you even trying, Quinn?"

I whip around to fix him with a menacing scowl. "I've been dancing the entire day, Sam Evans," I snap in full-out bitch mode. "Give me a fucking break."

"Do you want to take a breather?" he asks. "We can continue this later—"

"I'm fucking exhausted, okay? Can't we do your stupid research some other day?"

He blinks for a second, and then drops his drawing pad and charcoal pencil onto the coffee table before storming off to his room, slamming the door shut in his wake. His exit jolts me back like a rude awakening, instantly hitting me with an ocean of guilt. Vivaldi is still playing in the background, and of course, I hadn't really meant to lash out at him like that.

I just tend to screw things up better than most people.

I knock on his door even though he doesn't lock it, ever, but I'm just giving him an option. He can choose to turn me away, and I probably deserve as much.

"Sam?" It's silent on the other side, but I know that he's staring out of his window and into the night sky. "Can I come in?"

Even so, I don't wait for him to reply before I'm twisting on the knob. He's standing in the dark, his back to me, and he doesn't react when I enter his lair. Gingerly, I cross the room till I'm standing directly behind his toned body. Yet, he remains motionless, choosing not to acknowledge my presence. His skin is warm against the palms of my hands as I run them over his spine, his muscles rippling beneath my fingertips. My arms encircle his torso, and I lean in to rest my cheek on the broad expense of his back.

"I'm sorry."

Sam gives a tiny sigh, and not long after, I feel his gentle caress on my knuckles. Gently, he threads his fingers through mine with an assuring squeeze, softly rubbing soothing circles when I tighten my hold on him.

"It's okay."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

We forgive each other unconditionally.

"I hope you're not too depressed to let me finish my motion sketches."

"I did not put on this ridiculous skirt for nothing."

* * *

Sue makes an announcement regarding the company's annual production late one evening after a particularly grueling session of lifts and pas de deux work. She sits us down in a circle—twenty dancers in total—and breaks the news.

"Rachel Berry and Quinn Fabray."

She's a petite brunette, an outspoken girl with plenty of spunk to go around the group—twice—and in the short span of time, I've come to familiarize myself with the roaring determination and fiery passion etched in every move she makes. Her confidence knows no boundaries; her talents limitless, and if I have to compete with anybody for the lead role in the company, I'm glad that it's her.

Rachel comes up to me just as I'm leaving the studio, her ever-present cheerleader smile stiffly frozen on her lips. Gone were the friendly undertones in her dark brown eyes, now replaced by earnest will to win.

"Congratulations," she chirps, forcefully over-cheerful.

"Thanks, you too."

She takes a step closer to me. "Listen, Quinn." There might have been a slight grimace when she pronounces my name, but perhaps I'm just being my normal paranoid self. "I don't know if anybody has ever told you this, but I'm practically a shoo-in for the lead. I just want to make sure that you don't get your hopes up too high before you actually think that you even have a shot at this."

Wow.

"What are you saying here, Rachel?"

If there's anything more terrifying than this girl's creepy grin, I sure as hell can't pick it out because the pure venom in her glare is making Hitler look like a fucking saint.

"I'm telling you not to bother."

I watch as she whirls around and struts back to her posse, their giggles and laughter ringing in the studio even after they had gossiped their way out of the door. And to think that I had survived this long in the troupe without ever needing to face bitch drama, I had proven myself wrong.

Tina Cohen Chang stops beside me on her way out; already changed out of her training attire as her flip-flops slap around on the parquet floor. She turns to me with a tilt of her head, a concern expression on her defined Asian features.

"Don't worry. She's all talk."

I nod my head and pick up my backpack. "You hungry?"

"Famished."

We find a cheap diner around the corner—kind of greasy and sleazy but what the hell—and Tina points out that the place serves a mean batch of cheese fries, which we both decide to share on top of our burger and chili dog. I quickly discover that she has a certain disregard to healthy diet, choosing to eat anything she desires without worrying of calorie counts.

"You only live once," she shrugs. "Besides, it's not like we're not going to burn it all off anyways."

"Where are you from?"

She snorts at my question. "Chicago."

"How long have you been dancing?"

"Since sixth grade." After taking a long sip of her cold soda, she asks, "what about you?"

"I'm from Ohio, Lima," I chuckle bitterly at the memories flashing in my mind. "It's—I couldn't wait to get out of there."

"And how long have you been dancing?"

I think about it for a second.

"For as long as I can remember."

* * *

Our euphoric cries of pleasure echo throughout the apartment as he pins me to the wall. Hooking my legs around his tapered hips, Sam latches his luscious mouth on the slender slope of my neck, sucking and nipping at the exposed skin. One dexterous hand snakes up the length of my thigh, shoving the silk nightie higher up to rub the curve of my bottom. Rough fingers tangle themselves in my hair, heavenly massaging my scalp, kissing a tango upon my awaiting lips as he plunges his hardened member in my heated core.

"Fuck…"

"Sam…" My words were nothing but breathless whispers, gasping sighs of velvet satisfaction. "Oh, God…Sam…"

"You feel so good, Quinn."

I dig my nails into his bare shoulders, my head thrown back, eyes sealed shut, and indulged in his wonderful essence as his warmth buries deep within the inner depths of my womanhood. He grunts with the effort to control himself, but his movements are growing impatient, his impending release forcing jagged, graceless sheathing into my regions.

"Fuck…so close…"

"Put me down, Sam."

He does so, setting me down on my feet before I tug him towards the sofa, where he promptly divests me of my clothes, leaving me in a pair of lace underwear before stripping off his own T-shirt and shorts. And then he takes me again, tearing on my thong, filling me to the hilt, and creating a steady rhythm as we ride our way off the mind-blowing orgasmic cliff. His low growl serenades me in my downward spiral into absolute oblivion. We cling onto each other, our chests heaving in harmony while we descend from our climatic high.

"Damn it, Sam," I murmur into his neck.

He laughs quietly, stroking my tangled hair, and places a chaste kiss to my crown. "You seem awfully happy today."

"I'm in the running for the main lead."

Beaming down at me, he exclaims, "that's great! You're going to be amazing."

"Don't be too sure yet," I say with a roll of my eyes. "Nothing is decided. Rachel has as much a chance at getting it as I do."

His fingers trace patterns on the dip of my tailbone. "So what? I'm damn sure you'll get the part either way," he tells me earnestly. Being the artist that he is, Sam views life in a much brighter perspective, and for what it's worth, his positivity is relatively infectious.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

We share a moment of serenity, staring stupidly at each other, idiotic grins on our glowing faces because words are just superfluous and meaningless.

He's my best friend, as I am his.

Nobody else understands it.

"Dance for me," he requests all of a sudden.

"Right now?"

There's that lopsided smile again. "Right now."

Extracting myself from his lap, I locate my skimpy nightie and draw it on while he retreats to his bedroom to fetch his analog camera. It's ancient—practically an antique—but it had been his grandfather's. Sentimental value precedes modern technology, apparently. He appears, clad in a pair of plaid boxers and heads straight for the door.

"In the hallway."

"But I'm barely even dressed," I protest, gesturing to my attire—or lack thereof. "Can't we just do it in the living room?"

"Too many distractions in the background."

Of course.

"Fine," I relent since I foresee no way in winning this argument. "But if anybody sees me like this, you're dead."

"Don't be such a wuss, Quinn," he mocks, cocking an eyebrow. "Besides, it's two in the morning. Nobody is awake."

I scrunch my nose in disapproval. "Why can't we be normal for once?"

"Because normal is overrated."

* * *

"These look amazing."

Sam blushes a shade of crimson at the compliment. "Do you like it?"

"If I hadn't been there, I probably wouldn't believe that it's me in these photographs." He has gotten the images developed in black and white, using the red room in his school so that the contrasts come out so pretty.

"You look beautiful."

"Can I keep these?"

He waves it off. "It's yours. I have another copy."

"Thanks for making me look good, though."

Leaning over to glance at his work, he shrugs in a nonchalant manner. "You look happy—hopeful."

"You can barely see my face."

"It's in your movements."

* * *

**A/N:** That's the end of part 1! Hope you've enjoyed it! Rest assured, I will update the next chapter by the end of the week! Cheers!

Song used: "Fix You" by Yellowcard


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Okay! So I promised an update by the end of the week, didn't I? So here it is!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Fix You**

**Part 2**

**And the tears come streaming down your face  
****When you lose something that you cannot replace  
****When you love someone, but it goes to waste  
****Could it be worse?**

Sundays are great for sleeping in, especially after a brutal week of non-stop back-breaking trainings, so it's actually fucking irritating when the sun decides to come out and play upon my face. Reluctantly, I lift my heavy-lidded eyes to see Sam already wide-awake, perched on a chair with a charcoal pencil and drawing pad at hand, completely immersed in his work. My lips curl upwards when I notice the dark smudge on his cheek, and then he looks up.

"You're awake."

"Yeah," I croak out, poised to stretch when he stops me.

"Don't move."

I return to my initial position and continue watching him in silence, amused at the amount of concentration he's putting into a sketch. The morning rays filter in through the thin curtains, shadowing his features even as it creates a sort of halo around him.

"Can you lower the sheets a little?"

My breasts are already on display for the entire world as they are, so I'm not exactly sure what he means by that. He sees the way my brows furrow in confusion and decides to take matters into his own hands—literally. Setting his materials down on the floor, he slithers towards my lazy form and carefully pulls on the covers, allowing for the cotton to slide down my body till it barely conceals the curve of my hips.

"Better?" I ask in amusement.

He winks cheekily back at me. "Much."

"Santana suggests I get a Brazilian wax."

Snorting as he resumes his task, Sam smirks behind his canvas. "Doesn't make a difference to me."

I ponder on my next question, carefully weighing it out.

"You called your mum yet?"

He stiffens at the change in topic, pausing in his strokes as he busies himself with avoiding my gaze. Where every jaded artist has a story to tell, Sam Evans is no exception. As a promising youth, he was expected to attend medical school, be a surgeon and do his parents proud, but he'd never wanted that for himself. So he fled.

"No."

"Sam—"

"Just drop it, Quinn."

* * *

Tina and I are fast becoming good friends in the company. When the going gets tough, she pushes me to strive for that extra bit, telling me everything I need to hear whenever the situation feels dire. I help her hone shaky techniques, and she's always quick to comment on my flat executions, even though I've already pretty much gotten it from Rachel. She scorns and criticizes at every chance she gets, scoffing and huffing as and when she deems necessary.

I try not to let that bother me, though, but Sue pulls me aside a week later before proclaiming to the troupe that she has made her choice.

"Please give a round of applause to our lead in this year's production; Rachel Berry."

Tina lays a supportive hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze while I repeatedly remind myself not to cry. I see shattered pieces of my broken heart littering the dance floor, left to weep in the wake of my crushed disappointment. Before this, I don't think I've ever tasted such a bitter pill in my life—not even in my darkest hours strapped in a hospital with my stomach pumped out.

The smug leering Rachel sends my way acts like a final blow to my battered spirit, the triumphant glint in her eyes screams of gloating and glory. Everybody else swarms around her to offer their adulations, and even though it pains me to no end, I make a beeline for my fellow competitor—now victor—with my most sincere smile.

"Congratulations, Rachel," I remark, offering my hand out to her.

She glares in disdain down at it. "Thanks."

I'm utterly gob smacked, unable to comprehend her loathing towards my being even after my washout, but if she's even mildly apologetic about her rude behavior, she doesn't do anything to redeem herself, and here I thought that Sue doesn't tolerate divas.

"Hey, Quinn?"

I whirl around. "Yeah?"

"I told you not to bother."

* * *

Santana threatens to 'bitch slap the fucking anorexic' when I tell her about it over dinner. She's exaggerating, of course—mildly, anyways—and it's actually kind of hilarious to envision the Latina clawing the eyes out of the petite brunette, but a catfight is not something I want to break up.

"How are you holding up?" she asks.

"I don't know, but I'll be sure to tell you when I find out."

She then proceeds to point out that sarcasm doesn't work on me.

Whatever.

"Stop feeling like shit, will you?" she chastises, pointing her fork in my direction. "It's just a fucking stupid lead character."

I give her a look—one that I'm sure she's already so familiar with—and furiously wipe the grease off the corners of my mouth with a serviette before tossing it down on my plate and jumping to my feet.

"Oh, hey, Quinn, stop, okay? I didn't mean—"

"This production is everything to me," I snappily cut her off, now officially pissed because after years of being roommates, she still doesn't get me. "Everything. So don't you dare tell me that it's just a fucking stupid lead character."

"Come on, Quinn—"

"Have a good evening, San."

Grabbing my backpack off the carpet floor, I storm out of the restaurant without so much as a backward glance because I know that if I have to sit down there and face her for one more second, history will repeat itself.

* * *

Fuming and seething, I storm into Sam's apartment in a rage of a million hurricanes, Santana's words still reverberating loudly in my head. Hair askew and face possibly blotchy from all the ugly crying, I slump down on the empty loveseat, taking deep breaths to pull myself together when I realize how it's exceptionally quiet in the room.

"Sam?" I call out. "Sam, you home?"

I find him sitting on his bed; his head hanging low, a cellphone clutched so tightly in his hands, his knuckles are turning white.

"Sam?"

He looks up then, and I can't help but gasp at the God-forsaken sight.

"What the hell?"

His eyes—usually bright and mischievous—are red-rimmed and tear-streaked as he releases a soft sob, his composure miserably crumbling before me. Momentarily forgetting about my own pathetic problems, I instantly gather his broken self in my arms, hugging him close.

"What's wrong?"

"My dad called."

I thread my fingers through his tousled hair and lean in close to his ear. "What did he say?"

"My mother's dying." His voice cracks with torment at the last syllable. "The cancer's taking her."

"Oh, my God." I've never seen him like this before, his body shaking with grief as he awkwardly curls into my frame, wrecked with hushed whimpers. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

"I need to go see her."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

But I know that he'll need his space.

"I'll be here when you return."

* * *

Sam notices my somber mood while we're cuddling up in bed with the lamp on so that the entire room is bathed in a yellow glow. With my cheeks pressed against his broad chest, I can hear the steady beating of his heart, and breathe in his musky scent. It's one of those rare moments where sex is unnecessary as we're both simply basking in the comforts of each other.

"What's bothering you, Quinn?"

I snuggle deeper into his embrace. "Rachel got the part."

"Did they mistake her for you?"

His attempt at a small joke cheers me up a bit, and I smile up at his handsome face for a while before my lips drop to a frown. "I guess I'm just not good enough."

"Quinn—"

"No, really," I insist, sitting up so that I can properly face him. "That's exactly what Sue said to me, and she's probably right."

He delicately tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I've seen you dance, Quinn Fabray, and you're amazingly talented."

"You're different."

"Why? Is it because I'm not some fancy creative director of a dance company?"

Playfully, I pinch his bicep. "You know what I mean." However, at his chuckle, I let out a defeated sigh. "I try so hard everyday to be a better dancer than I ever was the day before, and I just don't know what else to do, or how much more of myself to give."

"Perhaps it's not how much more of yourself to give," he muses, a thoughtful twinkle in his green orbs. "But having to give all of yourself."

"I don't know how to do that, Sam."

"I'll show you."

And then he takes my hand and leads me down the end of the short hallway towards the restricted spare room that seems to be permanently locked, but I know he uses it to work on his art even though he has never allowed me inside. Contrary to my belief, though, the door opens easily as he pulls me inside. He flips a switch and a single spotlight illuminates the area, shining down on a stool and an easel.

Sam shifts his stuff aside before gesturing to the empty space. "It's yours."

My gaze snaps up to meet his. "What?"

"I mean, I come here all the time for inspiration. My feelings and emotions; they're all in this room," he explains, and in the faint shadows I can make out the outlines of his art pieces—a lot of which I had never been given the privilege to view. "I just thought I'd share it with you."

He effortlessly catches me in his hold when I launch myself in his arms.

"Thank you."

"Can you do something for me, then?"

"Anything."

"Tell me a story, Quinn," he murmurs. "Dance."

He lets go of me and sinks back into the darker corners while I stand alone underneath the harsh light. I'm lost, squinting to locate his silhouette, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to do.

"Music?"

I sift through the catalogue of arrangements in my head. "Gotan Project."

"Really?"

Smirking in his general direction, I say, "you wanted a story."

The instrumental begins, a staccato chorus of violins and an accordion before the beat kicks in a steady tempo. I know that Sam is watching me; with a charcoal pencil and a drawing pad, poised and ready, and I deeply inhale the strange smell of paint and paper to push my nerves aside.

It's just me now.

And I'm going to dance.

* * *

Sue is singing of praises for Rachel, and it stabs at me like sharpened spears each time the brunette flashes that triumphant grin, adding more salt to my already wounded pride. She leaps across the span of the floor for her solo, and I wonder if that could've been me.

Lost in my daze, Tina sends a quick nudge to my side to jolt me out before I miss my timing. Gratefully, I nod in appreciation, and squaring my shoulders, I take position. The choreography is rigorous and demanding, working every inch of muscle I never know I have, and pushing skilled techniques to the brinks of insanity.

Mike Chang—no relation to Tina—and I get paired up for a pas de deux. An exceptional dancer, his strength and fluidity hypnotize me with each fluent lift and synchronized movement. He matches my lines step for step, never missing a beat.

"Loosen up, Quinn," he advises with a laid-back laugh. "I'm not going to eat you."

I shrink back for a bit. "Sorry."

"You're doing great," he assures, motioning for me to run at him. "Don't look so worried."

"Alright, alright."

* * *

My phone rings while I'm watching a re-run of an old soap opera, and it's Sam on the other end of the line, checking in to ask me how I am. Glancing down at the bag of nachos, the bowl of dip and the bottle of soda, I reckon I'm doing quite okay.

"Pigging out on my couch, aren't you?"

"Yeah." A beat later, I add in, "I miss you."

"Miss you too."

Grabbing the remote, I mute the volume of the television. "What's it like being back home?"

He sighs. "It kind of sucks. I'm always in the hospital, and Stevie and Stacey are being broody, and dad is taking time off work. Feels like a fucking funeral."

"I'm sure everybody is just coping differently."

"Yeah, but it's like this big elephant in the room, and God, it's depressing." He pauses for a bit. "I just need to get away."

I hug my knees to my chest, spotting a portrait of his family on the shelf. "How's your mum?"

"She says 'hi'."

"I'm sorry I can't be there."

I can picture him shrugging his shoulders. "She understands."

"How long do you think you're going to stay?"

"I don't know," he admits. "A week, maybe two?"

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And I understand him perfectly.

"Take all the time you need."

* * *

Mike asks me out on a date rather unexpectedly during training—in the middle of a routine, no less—because he's got a pair of tickets for a musical production. His friend, Mercedes, is starring in it or something, and he thinks that I'll probably like it. Staring up at his hopeful expression, I figure, what the hell.

"Sure, I'd love to."

"Great!" he gushes enthusiastically, almost like a little boy at a theme park. "I'll see you at eight."

* * *

The play is better than I'd thought. Turns out, Mike's friend is one heck of an amazing vocalist, and she's a real sweet character too. He brings me backstage to meet her, and she's got such a magnetic pull, you can't help but be sucked into her infectious aura that comes with being such a veteran performer.

"I've heard so much about you, Quinn."

I arch an eyebrow accusingly at Mike. "Have you, now?"

"Oh, don't worry," Mercedes ruffles on. "He's said nothing but wonderful things about you."

There's something incredibly endearing about a man blushing with embarrassment while he tries—and fails—to grapple onto the last fragments of his masculinity, but as he mumbles something incoherent under his breath, I can't help leaning in to drop a light peck on his reddened cheek. His eyes widens and dances in surprise.

"What's that for?"

"To thank you."

We stop by an ice cream place on the way back and he treats me to a melon gelato because he swears that it's the best creation ever made. Honestly, I've always been the cookie dough ice cream-sort of person, but what the gelato lacks in chunks; it surely makes up for it in flavor.

"Damn, son."

He grins knowingly. "It's good, isn't it?"

Scooping another mouthful, I nod in agreement. "I think you've just converted me."

"You had fun tonight?"

"I did," I answer truthfully, and as far as I'm concerned, I can't remember the last time I'd thoroughly enjoyed myself so much. "I mean, I am—having fun, that is."

He wipes off an imaginary bead of sweat from his forehead. "Dodged that bullet, then."

Later, as he walks me back to Sam's apartment—after that stint in the restaurant, it's going to take a while before I talk to Santana again—we talk about his short-lived career as a police officer-in-training. He's animated about it too, laughing at his failed attempts to placate a bloodhound, or how he had unintentionally mistook an actual bird for a clay pigeon, and without realizing it, we've reached the door.

"So, this is me."

He surveys the empty corridor. "This is a nice place."

"It's not mine," I clarify, in case he assumes something else. "This is my best friend's apartment."

We stand there for a minute or so, stuck in that dreadfully uncertain moment, and it's like I'm in high school all over again. Mike jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and I'm not sure if he's as rusty in this department as I probably am, but I can see the wheels turning in his head.

"So I'll—"

"Yeah," I cut in, saving him the trouble. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He hesitates for a split second before closing the gap between us to place a shy kiss on the far corner of my lips. "I had a great time tonight, Quinn."

"Me too."

* * *

Sam hasn't responded to my multiple text messages or voicemails, and I'm getting bat-shit worried about him. It must've shown during practices because Mike's been asking me if I'm feeling well, and even Tina is wondering about my spatial behavior. She bluntly points out that I've been zoning out more than usual, but I assure them that I'm perfectly fine.

"Keep your ass in the game, Quinn," Sue reprimands sternly when I mess up on a step for the fifth time in a row. "What's chewing on you today? Hustle up!"

God, she sounds like a fucking drill sergeant.

Mike corners me the moment we're given a breather. "Hey, you okay?"

The kindness in his voice melts away some of the stress, and there's really no fooling my dance partner. "I'm just a little distracted."

"A little distracted?" he teases good-naturedly. "A bomb could've exploded in front of you and you wouldn't have batted an eyelash. What's really going on, Quinn?"

Leaning against a ballet barre, I gulp down a mouthful of water from my plastic bottle. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"Why don't I take you out for a nice dinner tonight?" he suggests. "You look like you can use a good meal."

Can't argue with that.

"Sure."

* * *

We get a little tipsy on wine and champagne. It's going to nip us where it hurts tomorrow, but we're laughing along the pavement at God-knows-what, and I'm sure the alcohol has achieved its desired effect. Mike does a leap in an accurate imitation of Rachel, his nose sticking high up in the air as he waves to an imaginary crowd.

"Thank you, thank you." Blowing kisses into the night sky, he takes a dramatic bow before holding his hand out to me. "Milady, would you care for a dance?"

With a polite curtsy, I plug on my worst accent in reply. "I would be delighted to, Milord."

He twirls me around while people are staring at us. Clearly, we're out of our minds right now, but the drunken haze is clouding the rational, upright Quinn Fabray so that the rare, fun side of me gets to play. Mike sings an off-key rendition of a classic—one that I've heard way too many times—and it's cracking me up all over again.

"Jesus, Quinn," he snorts, giving my wrist a sharp tug to avoid incoming traffic when I happen to wander down the road. "You're going to get yourself killed."

It tickles me to a giggling fit. "Oh, don't be such a party pooper, Chang."

He grabs onto my hips all of a sudden and clashes our bodies together in one swift move, just as a car whizzes by. The impact sobers me up a little, but now I'm consumed in his scent and how his fingers are playing a tune on the small of my back. Our noses are barely inches away, and in the moments as I'm staring into his glazed eyes; I realize that it's not exactly the worst place to be. His arms are familiar from the infinite hours of practice together, his dark hair slightly mussed from the craziness and underneath the street lamps, he appears to be glowing.

"You're something else, do you know that?"

I almost believe him, because the way he's tracing circles on my jawline with so much tenderness, it makes me think that he actually cares—probably way more than he should—and it frightens me a little. My entire life revolves around endless episodes of self-doubt and angst-filled teenage drama, I've always been careful to let people in; for fear that they'd one-day leave.

I'm still trying to find my voice when Mike swoops in—catching me completely off-guard—and kisses me. His pliant lips draw me in closer, and if there's any semblance of logic left in my brains, it's taken a hike right now as I lean into his frame. It ends as quickly as it started but that brief instance has left me swooning ridiculously.

"Erm…"

"You want to come over for coffee?" he husks.

His intentions are obvious, and I probably shouldn't, but every fiber in my being is gravitating towards the idea that for once, I'm actually in control of my life. I may be fooling myself with that one, though, does it matter? He makes me feel different.

Complications be damned.

"Coffee sounds nice."

* * *

Mike rouses me from my slumber some time at dawn, dopily nudging my side. It takes a while to register, but it's enough time to stop me from slapping his face, as I do so often when Sam wakes me up unnecessarily.

"Babe, your phone."

Still half-laden with sleep, I blindly feel around for the offending device before locating it in the pocket of my pants, having been thrown haphazardly across the room the night before. Without bothering to check on the caller, I hit the button and hold the phone up to my ear.

"Hello."

"Quinn?"

My eyes snap open. "Sam?"

Something is terribly wrong.

"Quinn."

The single syllable speaks a thousand words, and immediately I'm scrambling for my clothes. Voice cracking with suppressed emotions; he speaks in a mere whisper.

"She's gone."

There's a numbness that follows in the hollow of my heart, and it breaks for him as I choke back a sob, holding a hand up to my mouth. Tears start to gather at the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision of the beautiful sunrise beyond the horizon.

"Oh, my God," I whisper inaudibly as a trail of moisture slides down my face. "Sam—"

"I need you."

"I'm on my way."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And I'd do anything—everything—for him.

* * *

The next flight out is way too long, and the jitters make it impossible to stomach anything on the plane, but somehow or another, the compassionate air stewardess detects my anxiety and slips me into priority disembarking. I zip through the airport like a mad person, hopping onto the first cab that I can see, and sputtering directions to the driver.

When it comes down to it, the church is nostalgic, yet utterly foreign to me, but the cars parked along the sidewalk are unmistakable as I notice an old red beat-up truck that can only belong to one person. And then, of course, I see him sitting on the steps with his head in his hands, his black tie loosened and askew. As though sensing my presence, he glances up, slowly rising to his feet.

By that point, the floodgate that I've tried so hard to repress ever since I've touched down explodes like a caged beast, and before I know it, I'm crying for him—for his family—as he envelops me in a hug. He squeezes me tight with desperation, burying his nose in the crook of my neck, and breaks down in quiet weeps.

"I'm so sorry."

Sam inhales a shaky breath. "I shouldn't have gone—"

"Don't," I cut in before he can continue. "It's not your fault."

"She misses you, Quinn," he sniffles, hitting me with a pang of guilt and regret. "She wants you to dance at her funeral. Will you?"

"Of course."

* * *

Sam's old bed is way too small to fit two fully-grown adults, but we manage it one way or another. Physically and emotionally spent from the melancholic day, he holds me close while he stares blankly at the wall. He is still in his white dress shirt, now wrinkled, with his shoes kicked to the side, and for a splitting moment, I cringe at how I must've looked like.

"She spent her last days at home," he tells me, a hint of a smile ghosting on his lips. "No matter how tired she always felt, she insisted on cooking for us. She joked that it'll probably be our last chance at any real food, but she probably knew it was the truth. My dad can live off cold pizza and instant noodles if he wants to, and Stacey and Stevie have half their lives' worth of junk food to consume, so really, if you look at it, I'm screwed. We'll end up being that family with diabetes and hypertension—"

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"You'll be okay."

He tilts his head downwards, our gazes locking as he regards me with startling intensity. The depth of green in his eyes seem to go on forever, communicating a telepathic tale of his soul, revealing a hidden side of him I had never experienced before.

"I know," he says. "Because I have you with me."

"I'll never leave you," I solemnly promise. "You know that, right?"

"I do."

* * *

**A/N:** Wow! So thank you guys so much for the awesome reviews! I really appreciate it, and I'm really excited because this is the official fanfic that I've actually finished! LOL!

**Mandorac:** Hi there! OMG! It's so nice to hear from you! I'm glad you had a great new year! And thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I know it's kind of bad of me to shove WIME and THA to one side, but I figured a good break away from those stories is healthy :D I'm glad you liked how I've used Sam, Quinn, Rachel and Sue! LOL! Yes, I agree with you on how Quinn keeps referring to Sam as her best friend, but it'll get better, I promise! I know that this update is a little tragic, and also with the addition of Mike, it gets a bit complicated, but every chapter had a theme. In chapter one, it was 'hope' and this chapter, it's 'defeat', so hopefully everything revolves around 'getting fixed'—if I'm even making any sense. LOL! I'm rambling! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**Quams:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! Awwww…you're so, so sweet! I really appreciate the wonderful comments! I love Fabrevans to death and I just wanted to do them justice! So hopefully, I've achieved that :D I know this update is a little solemn, but I hope you've enjoyed it nonetheless! Cheers!

**Mrang12:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like how the story is so far! This chapter is a little depressing, I know, but it'll get happier, I promise!

**RJRRAA:** Hiiiiiiiiiiiii! Thank you so much for reading and always reviewing my stories! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you love the Santana parts! She's always so much fun to explore! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

**Nicole:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! LOL! Okay, confession time: I've always wanted to venture on smut for my Fabrevans fanfics, but I haven't reached to that point yet in THA (although, rest assured, there will be smut in that story) or WIME, so I've decided to vent their sexual frustrations in this story! LOL! I am currently working on both THA and WIME, so hopefully I'll put the updates for those stories up soon! I know this update is kind of depressing, but it shows a totally different side of Sam and Quinn's—erm—friendship. LOL! It's not all about sex with them, it's way deeper, and I wanted to showcase Quinn's feelings without…showcasing her feelings. Am I making sense? I don't know what's wrong with me today…

**Naya:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you've enjoyed it! Hope to hear your thoughts on this update! Cheers!

**xSilverandGreenx:** Hello! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Much appreciated! Awwww…and thank you so much for the awesome comments! I'm flattered! I hope you've enjoyed this update!

**SamEvans17:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you liked part one! Let me know what you think of this update! Cheers!

Song used: "Fix You" by Yellowcard


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Alright! Thank you so much guys for the amazing reviews and support for this story! Here's the third installment!

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Fix You**

**Part 3**

**Lights will guide you home  
****And ignite your bones  
****And I will try to fix you**

"Okay, stop, stop, stop."

Sue claps her hands once to signal a cut in music and marches to the center of the room, a dissatisfied frown on her face as she zeros in on me and scrutinizes Mike from head to toe. An uncomfortable hum settles in the pit of my stomach, and I know that she's sensed the shift in our chemistry, but I'm definitely not expecting her to flat out question it in front of the entire troupe.

"Is something going on with the both of you?"

"What?" My voice comes out all shaky, and for the better part, I'm actually a shit actress. Paired with sarcasm, lying isn't my best forte.

Her cat-like eyes are narrowed to slits. "You two are dancing like virgins."

I feel Mike stiffen from his spot beside me, but he doesn't offer an explanation, which I seriously don't blame him for because it's really not his fault. Still, as I try—and fail—to churn out a believable story, I pray that by some miracle, Mike will save our asses.

"It's just—I'm a little under the weather today."

She scoffs at my blatant lie, not buying the bullshit in the least bit, and stares me down. "You're not bed-ridden or in a wheelchair, so while you're standing in my studio, clearly you can still dance."

My silence says it all.

"What's your excuse, Chang?"

I'm too ashamed to even look up at him, knowing that I'm the cause for getting him into trouble.

"I didn't get much sleep last night."

"I appreciate your honesty. Mike, I want you to swap partners with Brody."

My head snaps up in shock of her decision and as I turn to discern Mike's reaction, he avoids all eye contact with me and reluctantly stalks over to Rachel, his hands clenched in tight fists. I know that it's a punishment—a cruel one at that—but I reckon, it's probably for the best, even though I'm not all that pleased about it. With options running low, and my career on the line, I decide to swallow my fate and accept my new partner.

"Hi."

I force a smile. "Hi."

"Don't worry," he drawls, leering as he gives me a once over. "You're in good hands."

It takes a legit amount of willpower not to step or jostle him on purpose, but a trade in partner for a guy is like an upgrade; it literally implies that the girl needs a better person to make her look good on stage, and it couldn't have been a more obvious insult than if Sue actually spits on me. Needless to say, Brody Weston isn't the most considerate when it comes to the pas de deux. He grabs onto me like a cowboy does a bull—I'm sure he's left a whole bunch of purple imprints on my skin—and just throws me down when exiting a lift, it's all one big wrestling match for him or something.

By the end of the day, I'm so sore; it feels like I've been fucked twice in the ass.

"I hope he didn't bruise you too badly."

I whip around with an icy glare. "What's your problem, Mike?"

"Where were you the other day?" No beating around the bush, he goes straight to it, the hurt evident in his bitter tone. "You just up and left without so much as an explanation."

"I had a personal emergency to attend to," I shoot back defensively.

"What could've been so damn urgent that you couldn't explain for at least ten seconds?" he demands, his words echoing throughout the empty room. "You didn't answer any of my calls or text messages, Quinn. I was worried-sick about you."

"You didn't have to," I retort heatedly. "You have no rights on me, Mike Chang. I'm not your girlfriend."

He reels back, looking like he's just been slapped. "Is that all I am to you? Fuck him once and throw away?"

"I never expected—"

"You know what; fuck it. I'm done here."

* * *

Sam doesn't like showing anybody his works until they're done, so when I notice the scarf hanging on the doorknob of his private room, I head to the kitchen instead to fix the both of us a late supper. Spaghetti Bolognese should suffice, and I suppose there's a bottle of wine somewhere.

Humming to myself as I stir the sauce, I'm startled out of my reverie when a pair of strong arms encircles my waist to pull me against a solid plane of muscles. A nose nuzzles into the side of my neck and a low chuckle reverberates from deep within his throat.

"Smells delicious," he coos, dropping a kiss to my temple.

"You've not eaten yet, have you?"

"No."

The mixture in the pot starts sizzling and Sam reaches out to turn the stove off before extracting the spatula from my hands and carelessly tossing it into the sink. His tongue, warm and moist, darts out to lick a sensuous trail up my ear. It's instantaneous—the shiver that runs down my spine to the tips of my toes, and the heat that simmers deep in my center—and I feel his smile against my skin.

"But I'm hungry for something other than your wonderful cooking."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And sometimes, he knows me too well.

He brushes his lips against the sweet spot underneath my jaw and it tickles. An involuntary giggle escapes my parted mouth, and seizing the opportunity, Sam spins me in his arms, lifting me up, only to set me down again on the island counter. Standing between my legs, he weaves his fingers through my hair and pulls me in for a wanton, evocative kiss—one that inevitably leads to something more. His talented hands travel down to cup my bottom, urgently drawing me flushed to his hardened bulge, now evident and straining through his khakis. In the midst of our hazed groping, he manages to eradicate me of my tank top and sweatpants. I fumble with his belt buckle, frantically tugging on it when it refuses to budge.

"Jesus, Quinn." Sam eases my hand away and effortlessly undoes it with a click.

"Fucking pain in the ass," I grumble.

"A little angsty, aren't we?" he smirks as I shove the offending clothing down his legs with my feet so that it pools on the kitchen floor.

Rolling my eyes, I don't bother with a reply. Without offering him a warning, I vigorously grind my hips into his pelvis, satisfied when he chokes out a strangled sound. Catching on quick to my bold advances, Sam hooks the straps of my bra with his thumbs and slides them down my shoulders, peppering chaste kisses across my collarbone as he releases the clasp. The friction between his boxers and my lace thong, accompanied by the cool air hitting my bare breasts accelerates my senses into an overdrive, and it doesn't take much before he's removing what's left of the barriers between us.

His thick member points proudly—almost pompously—towards my achingly dripping entrance.

"You ready?"

Ever the gentleman—no matter how often our sexual escapades are—he always asks first.

"Damn it, Sam," I whimper, pouting as he teases me with subtle caresses. "Just take me already."

"So impatient."

But then he sinks himself into me, and it feels like home.

* * *

Rachel limps into the studio armed with crutches, a cast wrapped around one leg, and even though she's probably in some kind of pain—or perhaps a little drugged from the morphine—the determination to show everybody that she's invincible is still etched in her facial features.

"What the hell happened?" Sue demands to know, not the least bit sympathetic for the brunette's situation.

"Slipped in the bathroom and broke my ankle," Rachel explains sourly. "The doctor said that I should recover in three weeks or so."

"Oh, great," my creative director remarks sarcastically, flinging her hands up in the air. "In the meantime, why don't we play dress-up and have a tea party?" A buzz ripples through the troupe. "This is an absolute disaster, Rachel. What do you suggest we do now?"

"I'll be here everyday to watch, I promise," the dancer assures hurriedly in an attempt to placate the beast. "I'll pick up on the routines as soon as possible and—"

"This isn't just about you, Rachel," Sue sharply interjects, and the hush that befalls the room feels like a suffocating blanket. "This is about the entire production. The show will go on with or without you."

And then her piercing eyes lands on me.

"Congratulations, Quinn. The main lead is yours."

* * *

Santana barges into Sam's apartment, completely unannounced, while he's doing a proportion study of me. Aghast at the blatant invasion of privacy, I reach for the nearest cushion to hide my indecency.

"What are you doing?" I shriek, ducking behind the sofa. "Don't you knock?"

She is probably as stunned—and traumatized—as I am, and if I were anything but naked at the moment, I would probably find her speechlessness amusing. Stiffly, she holds up the items in her hands—a pint of ice cream and some DVDs—and struggles to speak.

"A peace offering," she starts to explain, but then suddenly curses up to the heavens. "For fuck's sake, will you please get dressed?"

"Is it turning you on, San?" Sam snorts from his spot on a stool.

She flashes him the finger.

"Toss me your shirt."

He acquiesce to my orders and pulls off his top. The thin cotton doesn't help at all, really, and even though it falls a few inches above my knees, I'm pretty sure that my tits are on display. Self-consciously, I fold my arms across my chest, hoping it'll help some.

"Look, I know I was out of line the other day, and trust me when I say that I was just trying to—"

"You were right," I cut in. Her eyebrows spring up in surprise, and I can tell that she's expecting a totally different reaction from me. "I was overreacting, and really, it's just a stupid lead character."

She looks like she's about to argue with me about my indiscretion, so I quirk a smile. "But it looks like I'm stuck with it now."

It takes a while for the sentence to sink in, but then a slow grin spreads across her lips and she's beaming with delight. "You got it?"

"Well, it's most likely just temporary—until Rachel's cast comes off—so there's still a chance that—"

"No." Santana looks me dead in the eye. "Don't even think about it."

* * *

The multi-colored bruises are practically non-concealable, and Sam throws a complete bitch fit one morning when he notices the ugly patchwork on my skin.

"Do you people beat each other up or something?"

"My partner is a fucking Neanderthal," I mumble into the pillow as he lightly traces a particularly nasty area beneath my ribs. "He manhandles me like I'm his personal punching bag or something."

"Son of a bitch."

"I'm fine, though."

He places a kiss to the purple speck. "You're out of your mind."

* * *

It feels like I'm being constantly scrutinized under a microscope—every step, to every lift, to every point—and the frustration with myself keeps building up each time Sue calls me out on a mistake.

"You're not attacking it, Quinn," she hollers from the front of the studio. "Again."

"God, keep it together, Fabray," Brody hisses as we take position.

I bravely sneak a peek at the other dancers and they're shooting dirty looks in my direction because we've been running the same sequence for the past half hour, and somehow it's always me screwing it up. Guiltily gnawing on my bottom lip, I will myself to concentrate on the routine—picturing each technique over in my head—and not be bothered by Rachel snickering from the corner.

"Five, six, seven, eight…"

Brody hits a sore spot on my thigh and I try not to let my grimace show by breathing through the pain, but it's worth it when Sue gives a nod of approval before dismissing us for a short break.

"Are you okay?" Tina asks, and although I'm certain her intentions are pure, even the slightest pressure on my shoulder hurts. Still, I can't find it in me to tell her the truth, because among the coldness in the room, her touch is a welcoming comfort.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

* * *

Sue singles me out after training is done for the day, and her frown is enough indication that something is still wrong with me. Racking my brains, I try to recall any gross mistakes I've made—be it consciously or not—in the last few hours but I'm coming up empty. Then again, what do I know anymore?

"You are not performing up to your full potential, Quinn," she states monotonously—completely void of emotion—and the pang of disappointment that's been in my companion lately settles in the murky swamps of my morale. "I believe you can do much better."

Keeping my gaze glued to the parquet, I whisper pathetically, "I'm sorry."

"Your lifts and leaps look heavy. Perhaps you should lose some weight."

I've sworn to myself not to ever return to that treacherous pit of darkness again. That unspoken chapter in my life has been sealed shut, locked away beneath layers of ice and snow. The months it has taken me to forget resurfaces in an instant.

"I will, I promise."

* * *

It's a delicate balance when a recovering addict struggles not to fall back into the same patterns; and though my story is far from any sort of substance abuse, the analogy remains the same. Like everything else, it always starts off small before spiraling out of control.

I vow to never let that happen.

"You're not finishing that up?" Sam asks, pointing his chopsticks to my half-eaten carton of Lo Mein.

Glaring at the oil pooling at the bottom of my take-out box, I scrunch my nose in disgust and shake my head as I push my food over to him. "No, you can take it."

He slurps the noodles with a messy gusto. "Not hungry?"

"I think I'm going to try being a vegan for a while."

"You're shitting me, right?"

I shrug, trying to be nonchalant about it. "I'm opting for a healthier diet."

"Quinn—"

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And it's fucking irritating when he sees through me so easily.

"I'm not relapsing, Sam, I swear."

His eyebrows knit together in suspicion, not the least bit convinced by my weak-ass case, and in one way or another, I'm comforted to know that nothing gets past him. It saves me the trouble of explaining anything.

"No."

"Come on, Sam, it's just vegetables and beans—"

"God damn it, Quinn," he lashes out, slamming the utensils down on the table. "I said no."

I blink hard at his outburst, stunned into silence, and I figure he knows that I'm going to betray him anyways. It sickens me—this side that I so desperately want to dispose of—and it's going to be painful, but I'm also certain that the one who's going to hurt the most is my best friend.

"Okay."

Because a recovering addict is also a compulsive liar.

* * *

The studio becomes my new favorite hideout. It's proven to be great for when I'm avoiding Sam and his incessant interrogations. Away from judgmental eyes, the empty room provides the solace that I need to fully focus on my dance, straight down to the nitty-gritty, but as I step into a Fouetté—one that I've done a million times to perfection—I get thrown off my center. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I grimace at the jarring flaw.

"Shit! What the fuck is wrong with me?"

I'm huffing and puffing like an old horse, my hands are trembling; sweat is dripping down my face and the constricting feeling in my stomach is screaming in protest. Uncapping my bottle of water, I take a swig.

"You're still here?"

Tensing up at the indifferent sound of his voice—cold and emotionless—I shut my eyes and mentally count to ten, bracing myself before stepping into the crossfire. My body, battered and blackened, wants nothing more than to surrender to the fight, but the pride is pushing to stay alive.

"What do you want, Mike?"

He ignores my hostility and strides over with deliberate steps.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I grit out in reply, a sudden wave of slight dizziness washing over me.

"You're not fine." He pauses three feet away from me and tilts his head. "Have you lost weight, Quinn?"

He doesn't have the rights to care.

"I appreciate your concern, Mike, but I don't need it."

I turn to retrieve my backpack but he's swift to stop me.

"Look, I know I've been an ass—"

"Don't, okay? I don't want to deal with you right now."

* * *

"Have you been eating?" Sam asks the moment I step through the door. He doesn't say it to piss me off, but I still find myself holding back a nasty retort because he doesn't deserve it.

"Yes."

"You're not lying to me again, are you?"

"No."

* * *

Santana ambushes me outside the studio and threatens to drag me by the hair if I refuse to have supper with her, so for the sake of my safety, I assent to her demands. Of course, she's not taking any bullshit, and she whisks me away to a steakhouse. She senses my apprehension, rolling her eyes when I comment about how barbecued red meat is a heart attack on a plate.

"Shut up," she snorts over her shoulder. "You look like a fucking twig. I'm sure you can afford a few calories."

"Did Sam set you up for this?" And even as I'm telling myself that I'm only having a bowl of salad, I can't deny the scrumptious aroma of beef and potatoes.

She seats herself down at an empty table and scoffs. "Oh, please. Your fuck buddy couldn't call me without pissing himself, for crying out loud. Have a little faith in me, will you?"

"Okay, okay," I raise my hands in surrender. "Jeez, chill out."

"Nobody says 'chill out' anymore, Fabray."

"I'll just have a Caesar salad."

I've never seen anybody so offended by it, but Santana just looks at me like I've killed her puppy or something. "Over my dead body, Blondie. You're going to have the steak and finish it."

Twenty minutes later, I find myself hunched over a toilet bowl, flushing the remnants of my supper down the drain.

* * *

I can't remember what, when or how it happened, but when I open my eyes and see Mike hovering above me in utter panic, cradling my face in the palms of his hands, I figure it can't be good. There's a dull throbbing at the back of my head while I'm sprawled out on the studio floor.

"Damn it, Quinn," he whispers in frenzy. "You scared me half to death."

Groaning, I try to sit up. "What—what are you doing here?"

"I was walking past and I found you—" He grapples to form a coherent sentence and fails. "What happened?"

"I don't know."

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me?"

His question catches me off guard and I almost stumble on my Piqué. Shooting him the dirtiest look I can muster in my exhausted state, I continue with the routine, but Sam grabs me around my waist and backs me up against a wall. His art materials are left abandoned on the coffee table, haphazardly scattered about in his haste.

"What's going on, Quinn? Speak to me," he pleads quietly, his gorgeous eyes luring me in as he traces every curve of my features with his caressing gaze before pulling away just enough to continue his scrutiny down my body.

"I'm fine, Sam."

There's a flicker of sadness swimming in the twin pools of green as he stares longingly at me. His fingertips paint a trail underneath my tank top to trace the prominent crevice of my hipbone.

"No, you're not, Q," he states like a factual recount. "You look so pale all the time, your cheeks are hollow, you barely have energy in your body, and it's like the life in you just disappeared. I feel like I'm sleeping with a zombie."

"I'm just stressed out, okay?" I squirm feebly to escape his hold. "It's been a tough week."

His face falls, wounded that I'd even consider him an idiot, and steps away, refusing to even look at me.

"Fuck you, Quinn."

* * *

I should've known that shit is about to hit the fan when Sam calls out to me just as I'm coming out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my body. Hair still dripping wet, he holds up a yellow post-it note that he's found taped to his apartment door.

"Who's Mike? And why do I have to call him?"

He doesn't sound mad at all; just genuinely curious.

"That's for me."

His brows furrow as he tries to piece the puzzle together. "And how does he know you're here?"

I decide to go with the truth.

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And nothing stays hidden from him for long.

"He used to be my partner before Sue switched him with Brody," I explain, trying to keep my voice from wavering. "We watched a play one night and he walked me back."

"Did you sleep with him?"

I swallow the God-awful lump in my throat, and I know for sure that he can see the guilt written all over my face. "Yes."

His face clouds over and he tears his eyes away, utterly devastated by my betrayal. Scrunching up the piece of paper in his hand, he slams it down on the kitchen counter and turns away, the tension instantly filling his built frame. He paces around trying to control his turbulent temper.

"In my house?"

"No. Never."

"And all this happened when I was away?"

"Yes."

"So let me get this straight, Quinn Fabray," he begins, eerily calm, though his piercing glare speaks of a hurricane of emotions. "While I was back home in fucking Ohio, taking care of my dying mother and trying to keep my family together, you were busy whoring about with another guy?"

"It wasn't like that—"

"Then how else could it be?" he roars, his nose flaring as he fumes and seethes. "Did I misinterpret it? Was that not true?"

"It was a one-time thing—"

"You cheated on me?"

"We're not even in a relationship."

The silence hangs like threads of glass, waiting to crash into a million shards with a single tremble or blow. We stay staring at each other, an unspoken conversation between us, and I wish he'd at least allowed me to change into some clothes. He stalks closer, and with each inched movement, the fire dies just a little bit until he's barely a scant of breath away.

"You don't get it, do you?"

Probably not, but now is not the time.

"You're my best friend."

As I am his.

"Not anymore."

**And high up above or down below  
****When you're too in love to let it go  
****But if you never try then you'll never know  
****Just what you're worth**

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, don't shoot me! This story has a happy ending, I swear!

**Mandorac:** Hi there! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! Always brings a smile to my face :D This chapter's theme is 'desperation' so hopefully that has come across once or twice! I love deep relationships, like one of those Nicholas Sparks kind of romance, and I agree that Quinn and Sam have the basis and potential to be so much more! I'm glad you're enjoying this story! This particular short story means a lot to me! Hopefully you've enjoyed this chapter!

**RobOverstreet: **Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my humble story, and leaving wonderful comments! This chapter, I feel, is more intense than the previous one because it addresses more serious issues, but I hoped you've enjoyed it nonetheless! Cheers!

**xSilverandGreenx:** Hi! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm so glad that I didn't disappoint :D No, no, you're absolutely right on the song being from Coldplay, but there's a story behind why I chose the Yellowcard cover. I had attended their concert recently, and they did a cover for Fix You, and it was so beautiful and I cried. In the middle of the concert. Like…ugly sobbing. So there you go! A history of my song choice…LOL!

**Mrang12:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! And yes, Quinn does refer to Sam as her best friend, and I'm sure by the end of this chapter, you'll get a rough idea on what's going to happen next. And yes, not to worry! There a happy ending to this story! I promise!

**Nicole:** LOL! Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Glad that I have a fellow Singaporean on board! Hi-5 right back! Did I miss out something about Mike Chang? LOL! I'm currently working on WIME and some THA as well, so hopefully those should be up soon!

**Quams:** Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! Yeah, I mean, this whole story isn't just about Quinn. It's also about Sam and how they both need each other. You're right about Mike being a good catalyst to Sam and Quinn's relationship, though. I'm sure you'll be pleased in the next chapter!

**Alli2345:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! That entire bit with Sam's mom, I had to write and re-write it like a dozen times before I got it right, and I'm still not entirely satisfied with that! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

**SamEvans17:** Hello! Thank you for reading and leaving a review! Much appreciated! I'm glad you've enjoyed the previous chapter! Let me know if you like this update!

**RJRRAA:** Hiiiiiiiiiii! As always, thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I know the whole Mike situation isn't all that pleasant, especially having to imagine them together, but it gets better with Sam and Quinn, I swear! Quinn didn't bring Mike back to Sam's place, so I hope that clears it up a little! :D

**s. inthehouse:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and leaving wonderful comments! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like the whole Sam-Quinn-Mike triangle, and yeah, it's going to end as a Fabrevans story, of course! Hopefully you've enjoyed this update! Cheers!

Song used: "Fix You" by Yellowcard


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **So! This is the last piece of the story, and it's been my favorite story to work on so far—well, one that I've finished, anyway—and I'd like to thank you guys for the amazing support! Hopefully there'll be more 4-parters to come. Lord knows we need more Fabrevans in the world.

Enjoy!

xXx  
CeruleanBlues

* * *

**Fix You**

**Part 4**

**Lights will guide you home  
****And ignite your bones  
****And I will try to fix you**

I find myself back in my cold, empty bed, lying alone in the darkness as the soft sounds of the television plays in the background. Sinking deeper into the duvet, I inhale the foreign scent of clean laundry and groan at my stupidity. His words still ring clear in my ears but I've yet to decipher their true meaning.

There's a knock on the door.

"Quinn?" Santana's voice calls out from the other side. "You have a visitor."

I groan, burying my head further into the comforter. "Tell Sam to go away."

"It's not Sam."

"Then who is it?" I snap, not in the fucking mood to be entertaining guests.

"Mike."

Son of a bitch.

"What does he want?"

"How the fuck should I know?" The fading of footsteps that follows lets me know that she's retreated back to the living room or something, and that I need to get my ass moving.

Throwing the covers off my body, I hop out of bed to find Mike standing awkwardly in the doorway, and I shoot my roommate an admonishing look when I see that she hasn't exactly invited him in. Hospitality isn't her strongest suit, and I get that, but she could've put the poor guy out of his misery.

"What are you doing here, Mike?"

He straightens up and squares his shoulders. "You didn't call me back, so I went to the apartment—or rather, your friend, Sam's apartment—and he told me where you were."

"You talked to Sam?"

"He seems like a really nice guy," he shrugs, seeming a tad bit uncomfortable. "He obviously cares a lot about you."

We're now treading on dangerous territory—one that I refuse to discuss with my former dance partner—because what goes on with Sam and I are really none of his business. Folding my boney arms across my chest, I repeat my earlier question.

"What are you doing here?"

"I just want to make sure you're okay. After that day—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Right, right," he clears his throat.

I quirk an eyebrow, growing impatient. "Is that all?"

"He told me about your past."

For a split second, I feel my heart skip a beat, and the cold feeling of dread fills the entirety of my being. Torn between the pressing urge to march over to Sam's apartment to pound him senseless and defending my actions to Mike, I try to keep an impassive front.

"And what is it about my past?"

"It's coming back to haunt you, isn't it?"

* * *

**Tears stream down your face  
****When you lose something you cannot replace  
****Tears stream down your face  
****And I...**

The night air is crisp and cool as we stroll through the park, and I hug the cardigan tighter around my shivering frame. Walking a safe distance apart, Mike jams his hands into the pockets of his pants. Honestly, there's nothing left to be said, because whatever he wants to know, he already does.

"He's just looking out for you, Quinn."

"He's hurt, that's what he is."

He shakes his head, slightly amused. "I would be too if the woman I love slept with another guy that's not me."

"What?"

Noticing that I've fallen back, Mike stops and turns around. "What's wrong?"

"You said something about the woman you love…" I trail off, mumbling.

"He loves you, Quinn. Anybody could see that."

It hits me like a ton of bricks. "I didn't."

"I thought it was pretty obvious."

* * *

**Tears stream down your face  
****I promise you I will learn from my mistakes  
****Tears stream down your face  
****And I...**

There's a box on my doorstep addressed to me, and there's no mistaking the scrawl on the small card. Carefully lifting the flap, I glance down at the four mini muffins until Santana snatches the note from my hand to read the message aloud.

"Don't forget your breakfast." She waves it in front of my face. "Is this from Sam?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to eat them?"

"I'll take one with me."

* * *

Sue makes us train through lunch, but nobody dares to complain. With much to work on in the given deadline, she doesn't want to take any chances. Investors and board members are going to be present in three days to vet on the production. Any doubts or flaws will be a potential threat to the company and my career.

It starts quite subtly at first until Brody hauls me up for the lift, and then it feels like a plane crash waiting to happen. Everything spins out of control with an abrupt onslaught of headiness, my vision blurring, white spots appearing before my eyes as I try to blink them away.

"Quinn!"

* * *

I stir back to consciousness to the pedestrian beeping sound of a heart monitor and the clinical scent of linen. There's a sharp probing to my arm, and I laboriously lift my eyelids to study the tube that's putting me on drip. The fluorescent lights are thankfully dim, and a quick glimpse at the window lets me know that it's night.

And then I notice him, slumped uncouthly in a plastic chair—his shaggy blonde hair falling over his forehead—as he emits soft snores, and it's single-handedly the most adorable sight I've ever seen. Even though I know that he's furious with me, the idea that he's camped out on hospital furniture sends a hopeful tingle down my spine.

"Sam? Sam."

"Quinn?"

He practically throws himself on top of me, and I can't resist a small giggle as he gently cups my face in his calloused hands.

"Hi," I whisper, admiring his handsome features.

"Jesus, Quinn," he grates out; his voice is husky from sleep. "Don't you ever dare do that to me again, you hear? Promise me you'll never do that again. You scared the shit out of everybody in the studio earlier on—"

"Wait, what?"

"You passed out during training and—"

I gasp as the revelation sinks in. "Sue! Oh, my God, what did she say? Is she mad at me? Damn it, I'm going to be in so much trouble. She's probably going to pull me out of the main lead and give it back to Rachel—or worse, she might throw me out of the company and I'll be the failure that my mom always thought I was and—"

"Quinn, listen—"

"How could I have been so careless with this, I mean, I thought I did everything right and now—"

He kisses me, capturing my lips between his full ones, and effectively shutting me up in his own unique method. Calming me down in a way that only he knows how, he intertwines his fingers through my disheveled tresses and slowly pulls away.

"Breathe."

The tears prickle at the back of my eyes and spills down the sides of my cheeks, but he lovingly knocks it away with his thumbs.

"I don't know what else to do, Sam. I've tried everything."

"Quinn, when will you learn this?" he murmurs brokenly. "You don't need to fix anything about yourself. You're perfect just the way you are."

"But Sue doesn't think so."

"Well then, I guess you're just wasting your talents here."

"That's not true, Sam. I—"

"Need a company who will appreciate you for who you are," he emphasizes. "You're a phenomenal dancer, Quinn Fabray. I'm just sad that you don't realize it."

* * *

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"And what makes you think I was hurt?"

His forced nonchalance doesn't fool me, and in his own twisted world, it's his way of telling he that all is forgiven. I know he doesn't want to venture into that pit of quick sand again, but there's something I need to hear from him.

"Mike told me something interesting the other day."

He shifts in his spot next to me on the bed even though he's technically not supposed to be there. "Oh, yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell me that you love me?"

There's a beat of hesitation.

"Because you weren't ready to hear it."

* * *

She doesn't fire me like I fear she would, but Sue isn't at all psyched when she receives the news. Sitting in her office, on the very same chair I'd been on that very first day, I feel a liberating pounding in my chest when I see the shock register on her otherwise platonic features.

"May I ask why?" Her words, though rather polite, are laced with her usual demanding demeanor.

I've rehearsed this a million times in my head but the idea of saying it out loud scares me. "I don't think I'm cut out for the part."

"Can I tell you something, Quinn?" It's rhetorical, of course, so I mutely nodded. "I've seen thousands of dancers in my career as a creative director of this company, and trust me when I say that I'm never wrong. I picked you for a reason, Fabray. You just need to stop doubting yourself."

"But Rachel—"

"I told you that the part is yours, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but—"

"But nothing," she insists. Cracking a smile—an incredibly rare occurrence for her—she goes on to add, "I want you to own this spot, Quinn, and I want you to shine. You already have it in you to chew Rachel's scrawny ass, so get back up on that horse and whip it into shape. It's going to be a long race, and you're going to win it."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I'm never wrong."

* * *

Sam kicks me out of the apartment again, but this time he doesn't tell me why—only that it's not personal whatsoever—and whenever I come around, he'd either ignore my arrival at his door or yell through it that he's busy and sends me away. It actually makes me wonder if he's building a bomb or hiding some top-secret military experiment in there, and it's not funny anymore.

"Let me in right now, Sam Evans or I swear to God I'll break the damn door down!"

"Please don't do that," his muffled voice pleads from inside.

I've long bypassed pounding on the barrier since it's proven ineffective and it'll only hurt my fists for days to come, but yelling is good. "Then open the fucking door, will you?"

"Jesus, Quinn, I'm busy! Come back another day."

"This is urgent. We need to talk."

Instead of a straight reply, I hear things being shuffled around, and then a loud thump, followed by a string of rich expletives. Seriously, what the fuck is he doing in there?

"Are you cheating on me in there?"

He cackles out loud. "We're not even in a relationship."

That's real mature. "Stop being an ass, Sam! Open up!"

"Stop being a pain, Quinn! Go home!"

* * *

The next few weeks are spent fully invested in the production. Trainings are extended to the wee hours of the night, sometimes even starting as early as dawn. Brody and I have been rehearsing on our own as well, and we've finally learned the ins and outs of communicating with each other. He doesn't tattoo me with bruises anymore, so I stop purposely stepping on his feet as a punishment.

* * *

"He sent a tray of sushi today from that strange place you like."

Sam feeds me everyday without fail, and I'm not exactly sure why he does it, but it's not like I'm complaining because I'm always starving when I get home.

I drop my set of keys on the cabinet by the door and accept the food that Santana is holding out to me. "Thanks." Grinning down at the post-it note pasted on the plastic cover, I roll my eyes at the cheesiness of the message before flopping down on the sofa next to my roommate to eat. "What are you watching?"

"This show called _Glee_."

"The one with the bunch of singing high school kids and no continuity in the plotline whatsoever?" I deadpan, not understanding the media hype and appeal.

"That's the one."

* * *

One minute I'm strolling down the pavement on the way back to the apartment, and the next thing I know, there's a sharp tug on my wrist and I'm being pulled into a dark alley with my back slammed into the wall. A hand comes up to stifle my scream just as I'm staring into an unmistakable pair of sage-colored eyes.

Two months.

It's how long I've decided to ignore him, which is also how long it takes for his resolve to crumble, apparently.

"It's me."

I slap his arm away and forcefully shove him off me. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He glances away, sheepishly rubbing the nape of his neck. "I've missed you."

"Whatever, Sam—" I make an attempt to walk away, but his strong hold on my waist keeps me in place as he leans forward to press his front tight against mine. In our close proximity, his musky scent—coupled with tinges of paint fumes, charcoal and fiber paper—wafts into my nose, and the way my body responds to his is immediate.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shut you out."

"Apology not accepted," I retort, the last bit coming out as a gasp when he grasps onto the back of my thighs and effortlessly lifts me up, pinning me to the brick wall.

"How can I make it up to you?" he croons, a cock-sure smirk already gracing his oversized lips.

"You can't."

But he tries anyways, plunging his tongue into my mouth. It's masculinity in its rawest form as he clutches onto the fabric of my camisole and deliciously thrusts his hips against mine. A wanton, telling moan departs from my throat as he whispers my name in that low timbre. Feverish with the heat emanating between us, I clinch onto the soft material of his black hoodie and give it a hard yank, crying out to the heavens when he responds by sinking me down onto his clothed erection.

A loud clanking sound jolts us out of our lustful fog, and upon realizing what we were about to do—and more so where we were about to do it—I give Sam a hard whack to the back of his head.

"Ow!" he grimaces.

"Put me down."

As soon as my feet touch the floor, I duck under his arms to adjust my skewed outfit. "You're such a fucking caveman, Sam," I grumble at the wrinkles on my new top.

"I had to get your attention, somehow," he shrugs and pulls a fancy-looking card from the back pocket of his pants.

"What's that?"

"Why don't you read it yourself?"

It's an invite to his graduation show down at a local gallery.

"Will you do me the honors of attending?"

"We'll see."

* * *

There's absolutely no way in hell I'm missing Sam's showcase, of course, and Santana goes all out as to accompany me on a shopping spree. It takes quite a bit of convincing, but she reluctantly concords to the modest approach instead of draping me with something sheer or backless, and when I mention a graduation gift, she's zipping me off to a lingerie store, much to my dismay.

Primped to perfection—and to Santana's approving nod—I head over to the gallery. The atmosphere is surprisingly cozy—none of the pretentious shenanigans—as people of all ages, shapes, colors and sizes mill around admiring wonderful works of art.

"Excuse me, are you Quinn?"

I whirl around to be greeted by a friendly face of a middle-aged man in a purple suit and frazzled hair. Trying my best to identify him, I plaster a smile and offer him my hand to shake. "Yes, I am. I'm sorry, I don't seem to recall meeting you, sir."

"Call me Liam. It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person, young lady."

With that, he walks away, leaving me confused in the middle of the gallery until a soft, warm hand lands on the small of my back.

"I see you've met my professor."

I blink at him in disbelief. "That's your professor?"

"Come on," he beckons, steering me away. "I've got something to show you."

I stare at it in awe, the breath hitching in my throat, and I'm left speechless, because covering nearly the entire wall, is a portrait of me. Painted in dazzling hues of red, orange and yellow with angles and shadows highlighted in blue, I marvel at the care and attention given to the piece, almost as though each bold stroke carries a life of its own. He captures the motions perfectly, the lines and details so exquisitely translated onto the canvas, it blows me away.

"Sam…"

"Do you like it?" He's shy and apprehensive as he patiently awaits my reaction.

"It's amazing." Meeting his bright, sparkling eyes, I whisper, "you're amazing."

"There's more."

He places a portfolio in my hands, and it's a collection of charcoal sketches and photographs that he's done. One in particular draws me in—and I can't seem to recall ever having to pose for him as such.

"Sometimes, I stand outside the window of your studio just to watch you dance. And then I remember it."

"How'd you—"

"I have you memorized by feel, Quinn. I wouldn't need anything else."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

But this time, it's so much more.

For the first time in my life, I'm seeing myself through someone else's eyes.

His eyes.

And through his eyes, I was beautiful.

"Sam…"

"You don't need anybody to fix you, Quinn."

He looks so handsome and dapper in a black button-down shirt and slacks with his blonde hair neatly trimmed just enough so that it doesn't fall over his captivating eyes. A lopsided smile settles on his full lips, and in that moment, I just know it.

"Remember when Mike told me that you love me?"

"Yes?"

"I'm ready to hear it now."

**Lights will guide you home  
****And ignite your bones  
****And I will try to fix you**

* * *

**A/N:** The end! I truly hope you guys have enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! From here, I suppose I'm concentrating on my other stories. THA, especially needs some serious attention right now, but WIME is my priority. However, who knows, when I do get pockets of spare time, I might get another small fanfic done. Till then!

**Mandorac:** Hi there! Thank you so much for constantly reading, reviewing and supporting my work! I appreciate your time and effort in leaving me encouragements and motivations to pick my butt up and continue writing! This last chapter is 'acceptance', and of course, Sam helps Quinn realize that she doesn't need to change anything about herself, so hopefully that came across. I totally agree with your point—that Quinn doesn't let Sam in even though she claims that he's her best friend—but in the end, she's ready to let him in, and so I suppose, with that said, I'm sure this is a beginning of a wonderful relationship!

**Overgron'sLilLamb:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad that you like how the story develops, and I really enjoyed exploring Sam and Quinn's deep friendship/relationship. There's always a fine line between loving someone and being in love with someone, and I'm a romantic at heart, so I kind of swoon for stories like that.

**RJRRAA:** Hiiiiiiiiiiiii! Hehe! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, and you've never failed to encourage and motivate me in my writing! I really appreciate it! Yeah, the ending for the previous chapter was sad, wasn't it, but I felt that it needed to be done. This story has a happy ending, though, as promised, and I hope you've enjoyed it!

**Team Wallflower:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! Hope you've enjoyed the ending!

**Quams:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and leaving wonderful comments! I'm flattered you think so! I hope I haven't sent you on such a tiring emotional roller coaster ride, and I haven't killed you with that ending for part 3, have I? LOL! Unfortunately—or fortunately, however you look at it—this last update signals the end of the story, but I hope that I haven't left you disappointed! Cheers!

**SamEvans17:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm glad you've enjoyed the previous chapter! As promised, of course this story has a happy ending! I hope you're not disappointed :D

**xoBrucas4life86ox:** Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate your time in leaving wonderful comments! It made my day! I'm glad you liked how the angst played out in the last chapter, and in all honesty, I didn't mean to make you cry, I swear! I love Fabrevans with all my heart, and I think they deserve something good, so I just hope I'm contributing right in that aspect :D Cheers! Hopefully you've enjoyed the ending!

**Nicole:** Hi there! LOL! You've got quite a colorful personality! Thank you so much for going through all that trouble with typing on the phone—I know how much of a bitch that can be—and leaving a nice, lengthy review! Well, after all the drama Mike had put Sam and Quinn through, he's actually a good guy. I mean, at least he doesn't try and steal her away, right? Hehe! Anyway, I didn't mean to upset anybody with the ending on the previous chapter. I just thought it had to be done in order to get the plotline moving, and you know, it's like giving Quinn a wake-up call. Snap her out of her bubble and ask her to open her eyes to what's right in front of her. Well, either way, I hope you've enjoyed the ending to this story! It's a happy one, so I presume it'll be fine, right? Okay, maybe I'm just that ancient or something, but what's a T-Score? Are you sitting for PSLE? Or O-Levels? LOL! Don't worry; I was shit with my exams too. I'm sure you'll turn out fine :D

**Ashley:** Hello! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! As you've read, yes, this is a happy ending! Whee! I hope you've enjoyed it! Fabrevans Forever!

**RobOverstreet:** Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! I hope I didn't ruin your health with the troubles I've given to your heart from the previous chapter! Well, so it's a happy ending for Sam and Quinn, and obviously a wonderful beginning to a beautiful relationship!

**Libro abierto:** Thank youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!


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